


seven stars

by molerein



Series: on children and their healing magics [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Character Study, Gen, I... don't know how this happened but it did and I'm sad, Kidnap Dads, capes as a symbol of fatherhood, every time I try to write maedhros he makes everything super sad I hate it, maglor is trying his best but maglor is always trying his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:20:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29445456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/molerein/pseuds/molerein
Summary: maedhros wants nothing to do with the twins. they, of course, do not care for his opinion whatsoever.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel & Maedhros | Maitimo, Elros Tar-Minyatur & Maedhros | Maitimo, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Series: on children and their healing magics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2177592
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43





	seven stars

his hand is scarred by murder; blood of his kin has seeped into his skin, gathering in the lines of his palms like a conduit for dark magics - and is that not what he is? a herald of doom, stormbriger, death? is he not accursed and hated, doomed under the weight of an oath he had sworn, yes, though had not known the true meaning of? be the valar kind, they would have granted him a swift end, but unlike his brothers, he had not been so fortunate. indeed, broken and battered as he is, wrecked and wretched as he is, even in the moment when the end had been in sight, it was snatched from him under the guise of kindness.

still, he finds it not in himself to hold a grudge against fingon, could not then even if he tried. and he had, in the long moments of agony when the pain had been rippling through him with each inhale and yet he was no closer to fading for it. he had meant to expel all the anger and anguish within and direct it towards his cousin, but fingon - patient and kind and ever gentle fingon - would take it all in silence and then the guilt would set in. but fingon is gone. another name, another ghost to haunt him. 

part of him, as expected, thinks the punishment too light. another part, more subdued though no less insistent, is relieved at the prospect that this burden will be only his to bear. maglor understands, of course. but maglor has not been taken by the enemy. he has not been left for dead by everyone he's ever known... and why should they have not?

it's a lonely existence. and yet he is a prince, no matter how disgraced, but thoughts of a crown brings with it thoughts of his brothers... and that is yet another pain he cannot bear. seven they were. now they are only two .

"does it not hurt?" a small voice asks, breaking him out of his thoughts. he looks down to see one of their wards; the children have understandibly been wary of them thus far, and he has not bothered to learn how to tell them apart. from the hushed warning and the way the one who has not spoken tries to pull his brother away, he figures he does not approve of this. "your hand-"

"elros!" the other - elrond then, perhaps - tries again, withering under the heaviness of maedhros' weighted glare. around them, the camp is silent; not yet late at night, though their men are weary from the long journey. he wishes he could retire too, maybe track down some wine to ease the passage of time, but he has been given first watch, and this apparently includes watching over the twins.

"no." it's a short reply, the first word he has spoken to either of them, seeing how his brother appointed himself their keeper, and maedhros has stayed away. it startles the elflings, but then the one more bold steps closer, trying to look and - "it does not hurt. go to sleep, we leave at dawn."

he hates to see them flinch; hates the way they look at him, too cautious, too afraid. hates the fact that they have all the reasons to do so, and yet the little one - elros, he tells himself firmly - had still approached him. once upon a time, he had been a kinder person. in nights he cannot sleep, he wonders what his father would think if he saw him now. the answer varies depending on how much he has let the anger and self hatred fester, but his brother knows on instinct when to pull him out of his own treacherous mind. he does not think of his mother. 

maedhros watches elrond take his brother's hand, so protective for one so small, watches them disappear in the darkness, and casts his gaze back towards the sky. 

it's only three nights later that the children find the courage to seek him again. from the periphery, he has seen maglor shepherd them along, sometimes smiling, other times grim. but maglor is like that, in spite of the oath looming over them both like a dark omen, and sometimes he likes to think that this curse does not affect him as much, if only to save his own heart. they never speak of it, but it's present, and he doesn't know how to set down the burden.

the sun is high in the sky and they have stopped in a clearing to make camp and hunt; even with his one hand, he still carries a bow with him, if only for the familiarity of it against his back, and no one says anything. they do not have to. away from others, he's busying himself with skinning a rabbit when one of the children approaches, the other a shadow nearby, and sits down next to him. in his hands, a crown of wilting flowers, crushed in a too tight grip.

"I made this," the boy says at last, when the silence has stretched on for aeons and the fact that maedhros will not speak became aparent. he risks a glance sideways, sets the rabbit aside to wipe his hand on the grass, even if it makes little difference. the blood is drying black, darkening his fingernails.

still, he tries to soften his features, to imitate maglor enough so that his mouth is not set into a firm line, even if it is not really a smile either. the elfling perks up at that, hands still wringing the flowers in obvious nervousness. 

"it is very well made," maedhros tries, and the lie tastes less bitter than expected when the boy smiles all sunshine, thrusts the object into his lap. clenching his jaw is all he can do to keep still, to not startle. the shock must be written plainly on his face however, because both twins laugh, before the one standing grabs for his brother and together they dash away, probably to pester someone for food or mischief.

but maedhros looks after them for a long while and then, cautiously, gently, he traces a finger over delicate petals gleaming golden in the midday sun.

if he cries, there is no one around to see him, and so, is he truly crying?

he still writes letters to fingon he will never send. he still tastes sea air on his lips and feels fire on his skin. when the moon is full, he pretends he is home, a long time ago, that he can curl up under his father's cape again or chase celegorm through the forest. the light of the trees will never shine here, but if he closes his eyes tight enough, he can almost see it.

"give them a chance nelyo," maglor tells him one evening, sounding tired. he always sounds tired nowadays, and something in maedhros rebels, the need to protect his brothers... he closes his eyes against the onslaught, pulls his shoulder back when maglor tries to rest a hand there.

"you are not their father, and neither am i," he spits instead, doesn't turn to see the way his brother's face changes with hurt, a grimace and a frown. but he needs to say this out loud. he needs to remind himself of what he is, of what he had done. maglor is merely a casualty. "we killed their people."

"i know." maglor replies, something like venom in his beautiful voice, a harshness that was not there before. was he a better man, maedhros would grovel for his brother's forgiveness, but he is not. he does not. "yet we are all they have now."

and is that not the highest of ironies? is that not why this hurts so much? their father is dead, and maedhros was all that his brothers had; they looked to him for guidance, for comfort, even if they would not admit it. and one by one, he lead all of them to their deaths. will he not doom these children to the same fate then?

maglor leaves him there, and he both loves and loathes him for it.

in the end, it is not his choice to make. the twins follow him around, teach him games he pretends he does not know, and when they ride on his shoulders, they laugh like children are supposed to. high above the earth, weaving flowers in his hair, they are no more afraid of him than they are of the moonlight.

they break their feast together, one on his knee, the other on maglor's, and his brother takes to singing again. elrond is a quick study, and soon enough, he becomes far more interested in the harp maglor lets him play with than with anything else. elros chooses maedhros as his teacher, and by the time he notices that he has been showing the elfling how to wield a sword with his left hand, it is already too late. 

in the midst of all the darkness, the twins are much needed light. in his heart, he feels longing for a past that is not his anymore, and yet something else as well, something akin to happiness. his hand is drenched in blood, but when he wiped tears away, or when he offers comfort from nightmares, maybe there is something else he can be good at as well. 

"tell us a story," elrond says, wrapped in his cloak along with elros, huddled by his side for warmth here where the light of the camp fire barely reaches. maedhros brushes a strand of hair behind the child's ear, lingering on his cheek, and his lips curl into a smile on their own accord.

"I know no happy stories," is his reply, tinged with a sadness he will not name but knows into his very marrow. that he used to be storyteller cuts him to the quick. he used to be a lot of things. he used to be many a thing he is not anymore.

"make one up, then." elros insists, bright eyes staring into his own, a demand and a plea both, and maedhros cannot help but think: _yes, this boy will be king one day, and the world will bend itself in half just to listen to his command._ and so like the world, he bows his head in jest, tickles his fingers down his ribs.

"very well then. let me see... once upon a time, there were seven stars, and each of them shone a different colour. one red, one blue, one green, one black, one yellow and two, the smallest, the same shade of silver. but they all shone with the same brightness, for they were crafted by a master's hands, and in their beauty was reflected the love he felt for the daughter of a king... "

and so he goes, until the children are asleep, and even then he continues, weaving story after story. he sleeps too then; for the first time in many years, he does not dream.

years later, with the coveted silmaril burning his hand and fire all around him, he thinks back on that day, on the many days that followed, and before he falls, he smiles. 


End file.
